esently, her gaze fixed aslant on me as
if to dare my interference, she drew up a thin gold chain that hung
about her neck and ended beneath her blouse. From it she unfastened a
wedding ring and gravely put the thing on her third finger, the
school-girl romanticism of the gesture blended with an air of
little-girl naughtiness. She looked more fit for a nursery than for this
business.

I could tell from the change in her expression when the man was
approaching. I rose, meaning to meet him and turn him aside from our
table. But Phillida halted me with one deftly planted question.

"You would not leave me alone in this place, Cousin?"

Certainly I would not leave her alone at a table here; not even alone in
appearance while I had my interview with the man close at hand. Yet it
seemed impossible to speak before her. She calmly answered my
perplexity.

"You must talk to him here, of course. I--want to listen to you both.
Indeed, I shall not interfere at all, or be angry or hurt! I know how
good you mean to be, dear; only, you do not understand."

I sat down again, perforce. When the man's shadow presently fell across
our table, it did not soothe me to see Phil thrust her hand in his, her
small face enraptured, her fingers locking about his with a caress plain
as a kiss. She said proudly, if tremulously:

"Cousin Roger, this is my husband. Mr. Locke, Ethan dear."

He said nothing. His hesitating movement to offer his hand I chose to
ignore. I admit that my spirit rose against him to the point of loathing
as he stood there, tall, correct in attire--the focus of admiring
glances from other diners--in every way the antithesis of my poor
Phillida.

"Sit down," I bade curtly, when he did not speak. "Miss Knox insists
that we have our interview here. I should have preferred otherwise, but
her presence must not prevent what has to be said."

"It won't prevent anything I want to say, Mr. Locke," he answered.

He spoke with a drawl. Not the drawl of affectation, nor the drawl of
South or West so cherished by the romantic, but the slow, deliberate
speech of New England's upper coasts. It had the oddest effect, that
honest, homely accent on the lips of a performer in this place. Phil
drew him down to the third chair at the table. After which, she folded
her hands on the edge of the cloth as if to signify to me how she kept
her promise of neutrality, and looked fixedly at her glass of water
instead of at either of us. Plainly